by Emelia Blair
Eve is home, and she looks worn out.
She lets me in without a second thought and without thinking, without even considering her reaction, I drag her to me and hold her close, taking in her natural scent.
She struggles for a few seconds before giving in.
Pulling back, my hands on her shoulders, I study her face. “Have you been harassed?”
She shakes her head, but I note that she doesn't pull away from my touch.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this on the phone?” I demand. “I would have come back straight away.”
She then rubs her hands over her face, and it doesn’t escape me that she looks utterly drained. There is no fight left in her at the moment.
She takes a step back, and I release her, frowning, thinking that she doesn’t want me to touch her. She starts moving towards the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat?”
I shrug off my leather jacket on the arm of the couch and follow her into the kitchen.
My voice is a quiet command. “Eve. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She reluctantly turns around, and I see the unsettled look on her face. “I didn’t want you to come back for something like this. I’ve been handling it.”
Her hands shake slightly as she puts the kettle on the stove and I grip her wrist, my brow knitting. “Something’s wrong.”
She is burning up.
“A slight fever,” she shakes off my hand. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I hiss. “You’re sick.”
I glance around as if suddenly realizing that the apartment is far too quiet. “Where’s Mila?”
Eve rubs her bare arms, not a nervous gesture but pure agitation. “With Ron and Mark. Ron’s staying with Mark for a few days and I sent Mila with him. I didn’t want anybody finding out where we live and start… I don’t know.”
Her voice is jittery, her skin too flushed.
I don’t like that she sent Mila with Ron, but I am hardly in a position to be saying anything.
“You’re home alone?”
She shrugs putting two mugs on the counter. “For now. I’m not mad that they took a picture of me, but Mila is in it as well.” She glares at me. “Her picture is out there on every tabloid.”
I blink slowly. “Every tabloid?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles in Eve’s throat, and she gestures towards a pile of newspapers and magazines.
“Not just one picture. They had seven.”
My hands shift through the articles and I tighten the leash around my icily controlled veneer.
“What utter bullshit,” I say, my tone soft, a trace of menace lurking just below the surface.
The kettle whistles but Eve doesn’t make a move towards it, staring at the tabloids. She raises her eyes towards me, accusation in them. “This is why.”
I wait for her to continue, knowing what is coming, steeling myself against the onslaught of the coming truth.
“This is why I didn’t want Mila to be a part of your life. I was trying to protect her.”
She doesn’t look angry, just defeated, and suddenly I wish she would scream or yell or hurl accusations at me because right now her words are simple and all the more painful.
Even if I didn’t do this myself, I most certainly caused this.
I walked into the lives of the woman I love and our child and disrupted them. And if Eve tells me right now to walk out the door and leave them alone, it will kill me to do so, but I will have to.
“It’s only a matter of time before they link me to the dance studio. Not long before they find out where I live,” her hands clenched, impotent anger on her face.
When she sways, I take a step towards her, without thinking, and she automatically raises a hand stopping me in my tracks. “No. Just stay away.”
My jaw tightens. “Eve, you have a fever. You need to rest. I’ll handle this.”
She runs a hand through her hair, frustration and exhaustion present on her face. “Handle this how? You can’t make the pictures go away. You can’t stop them from taking more pictures.”
She picks up one of the tabloids and reads aloud. “…unlike his usual choice. Some may call her voluptuous, but she leans towards the obese end of the spectrum. The child that accompanied her was a helpless victim as the mother tried to push her onto her new moneymaker—”
I snatch the paper from her. “That’s enough!”
The look on her face is mocking. “Why? Don’t you like being described as a moneymaker? Face it, Zayn. They’ve basically made me into some money-hungry whore who’s after you for your wealth, and I am willing to use my kid to do so. You’re getting off lightly in all this. Or maybe not. They do hint at you maybe having a fat fetish.”
Eve’s face is going paler with each word, and I leap towards her as she loses her balance.
“I’m fine,” she tries to push me away, but I hold on to her, forcing her into the living area.
“You’re not fine,” I say firmly, my tone calm, hiding the monster inside of me that paces inside my head, demanding blood. “You have a fever. You’re stressed out.”
Her legs collapse from under her, and I immediately pick her up bridal style.
Taking her to her bedroom, I put her into bed and hiss when my own skin feels hot at her burning touch. She is on the verge of passing out, and I take off her shoes, tucking her in bed.
Taking out my phone, I call Agatha.
“Zayn, finally! Listen—”
I cut her off. “I need a doctor sent to Eve’s place. Haseeb. Tell him the address and tell him to move fast.”
Agatha’s sounds alarmed. “Mila?”
“No, Eve,” I say, shortly. “I don’t have his contact on me right now. Once that’s done, call me back.”
I don’t have to wait long.
When Agatha calls back, I get down to business.
8
Eve
My body hurts.
Everything hurts.
My head feels like it is filled with cotton and my throat is parched.
I try to open my eyes and blink slowly, trying to get some clarity.
My bedroom ceiling.
How did I get to my bedroom?
I can’t remember much except the pain, the worry, and… Zayn.
Zayn showed up from the airport. He held me in his arms; he was so gentle, so unlike himself.
And I got hysterical. I went from hysterical to a bitch, trying to blame him all the while knowing that all this wasn’t his fault.
And then?
Then what happened?
I can’t remember.
I try to move, but my head feels so bad that the very thought of making any type of movement hurts.
A slight movement in my peripheral vision has me wincing and turning my head, and I still.
Zayn is hunched over in the uncomfortable kitchen chair, asleep. The pressure on my left hand that I just now note is him holding it as he sleeps.
I stare at his sleeping form, not knowing how to react or how to feel.
A closer look at his face tells me that he looks all kinds of tired right now. He is frowning in his sleep, his face taut with tension and in my feverish haze, I wonder what he is dreaming about that has him so rigid.
Needing water, I try to sit up.
The movement wakes Zayn up, and within a heartbeat, he goes from deep sleep to completely alert. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow, and my throat hurts at the motion. “Nothing. I am going to get some water.”
He is on his feet before I can stop him, his hands pressing down on my shoulders. “Stay. I’ll get it.”
I pull myself into a sitting position with some difficulty, my head swimming. He dimmed the lights of the room enough to see clearly, but not bright enough to be annoying.
Zayn returns within seconds, pressing a glass of water into my hands.
He doesn’t let go of it, for which I am grateful because my hands tremble.
After I quench
my thirst, I watch him set the glass down on my bedside table and ask, “What happened?”
He purses his lips, and I see the flash of worry in his eyes. “You had a fever, Eve. A very high fever. You passed out, and I called a doctor, someone I know and trust. You’ve been in and out for two days.”
Two days?
The shock is almost a physical thing. “Mila?”
“Ron had some art showing in Jersey. Mila is with Ian and Agatha. She’s in good hands.”
His calmness is rubbing off on me, and while I should have been worried about my baby girl with people who are sort of strangers to me, I know these are people Zayn trusts with his life, so I swallow and nod.
“Have you been…?”
He gives me that half-smile of his and opts not to answer the obvious question in my eyes. “You’re looking much better. How’re you feeling?”
I sink back into the bed with a groan. “Like a bus ran me over and then decided to double back and do it again.”
A hand on my forehead was brushing the stray hair back, “If you can complain, then you’re obviously feeling better.”
His cool hand feels so good against my skin that in the haze that blankets me, I wish for a heartbeat that he can just stay like this.
However, reality isn’t something I can push away. I open my eyes again, and it shakes me to see the tender look in his eyes.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t know what to do with him taking care of me.
How am I supposed to interpret this situation?
His clothes are the same ones he had on when he walked into my apartment two days ago. He didn’t bother to change. Looks like he didn’t leave my side at all.
“Were you here the whole time?” I find the words leaving my lips.
“Of course.” Zayn watches me before leaning back.
“Why?”
The silence is long and drawn out before he finally says, “You’re not ready to hear my answer yet, Eve.” He then moves closer to me and my breath hitches before he tucks the blanket around me, murmuring, “You were crying in your sleep. And you said a lot of things.”
I stiffen. “That was the fever talking.”
Zayn doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Who’s Thomas?”
The blood drains from my face. “No one.”
He smiles, such a gentle look, and yet the carefully controlled menace laced in his tone doesn’t slip by me as he strokes my sweat-damped hair back. “I’ll find out eventually, Eve. All these secrets that you’re so determined to hide from me. I’ll unwrap them one by one, and if this Thomas is the person who hurt you, he’s going to pay dearly for it.”
His lips press against my forehead, and my body shudders at the thrill that shoots inside me at the contact, and the fear that Zayn doesn’t make promises he doesn’t intend to keep.
I am not ready to have my life laid bare before him, yet.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost hypnotic. He reaches out and grasps my hand. “I’ve got you. I’m watching over you. Sleep.”
I want to snarl at him at the implied expectation that I will obey his command and yet the rebellious side of me is tainted with exhaustion as well and grousing in the back of my mind. I try to ignore how safe I feel in the knowledge that Zayn is right next to me.
I don’t want to analyze this feeling.
My mind grows foggy, comforted by the larger hand grasping my slender one, and I mutter, “By the way.”
I feel his hand tightening on mine in question.
“I’m not fat.”
A deep-throated chuckle, and Zayn’s smooth voice hinting at delight, “What you are is gorgeous.”
“Damn right,” I mumble, half asleep, the pull of oblivion too powerful for me to resist.
The next time I come to, I am clearer headed, and the fever has broken. This time, Zayn is nowhere to be found. His shoes are on the floor next to the bed, so I know he is around.
I sit up, feeling more like myself.
The echoes of pain in my body still remain but as I let my feet dangle from the side of my bed, I ignore them and try to think of how much damage I did.
Zayn stayed here to look after me.
He slept in the kitchen chair that pokes holes in your back.
He held my hand, and—a brief look at a bowl filled with water and a damp hand towel hanging from the side—apparently taken care of me as well.
Frustration builds in me and dies as quickly as it grows.
He said that he loved me.
He went about doing all these things for me and this fluttering in my heart, this warmth, I can’t control it.
I was horrible to him, and he keeps coming back, undaunted, unfazed, watching me with a quiet intensity that is all the more powerful.
I rub my hands over my face. This man is crawling under my defenses, breaking down one wall after the other. And I am letting him.
Elation and misery are two emotions that I wouldn’t have thought could be experienced simultaneously, but right now, their combination churns in my gut like a festering wound.
I curl my toes to remind myself that I can and let out the breath I am holding in.
My body still feels weak and tiredness clings to me as I stand up and locate my shoes.
My clothes didn’t change, and I blink when I realize what he could have done if he wanted to but, for some reason chose not to.
My steps are unsteady, but I find my balance as I make my way into the living room. A packet of chips lay open on the coffee table next to a laptop whose screen is still turned on. I give it a glance before dismissing it entirely.
“Fuck! Shit!”
The roar comes from the kitchen and startled, I cover the remaining steps with long strides that leave me a little out of breath.
Zayn is holding the jar of coffee beans with more than half the contents on the ground. His hair is sticking up, and he is glaring at the jar as if it is responsible for this calamity.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his face looks worn out, if not for the animated look of frustration on his face.
“Fuck you,” he tells the jar, scowling, and I can’t help the hysterical choking laughter from bubbling up.
He immediately looks up and freezes.
I am leaning against the doorjamb for support when our eyes meet for a few seconds, and my throat goes dry as it always does when he looks at me in that particular manner. Although, now I see that it is every time he focuses all his attention on me.
“What’re you doing out of bed?”
I tear my gaze away from those glacier eyes and study the mess on the floor. “What happened here?”
“I need coffee,” he says as if that is all the explanation needed.
“Oh,” I say lamely. “You gonna clean that up?”
“Eventually.”
He studies me and there is something deeper in the silence, an awareness that I subdued until now. Under the light, his eyes almost seem darker, hungrier, as if he scented something.
I clear my throat. “I want some coffee too if you’re having any.”
He blinks languidly and then turns to frown down at the jar he is still clutching. “You can have juice. Doctor’s orders. No coffee, no tea.”
I make my way to the kitchen table and sit down, musing on whether I want to fight him on his.
All my defenses are laid bare.
Right now, it is better if I don’t.
“Juice, then.” I stand up, feeling a pang of hunger. “I’m hungry, too. I’ll make—”
“Fergus is sending food. Sit down.” His words are a sharp command.
I don’t have it in me to rebel, so I shrug and then, folding my arms on the table, put my head down on them.
He doesn’t say anything, and then I feel a large hand stroking my hair as Zayn says, cheerfully, “You look like shit.”
I make a sound that is between a groan and a torn reluctant laugh. “That’s not helpful.”
> I can sense the smile in his voice. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t remove his hand from my hair, and I am oddly okay with it. I feel like I am floating in this haze and I am starting to enjoy the feeling of him stroking my hair.
Part of me warns me that this isn’t a good idea and I should pull away but the way his hand moves over my hair in gentle strokes, it is so comforting after the god awful week I had; I almost purr under his touch.
“Your fever is gone,” he remarks, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.
He is standing so close that I can almost feel the heat from his body.
Then he says, “You’re like a cat,” and the spell is immediately broken.
I straighten up and his hand falls away.
I rub my hands over my face. “I’m going to go take a shower. I smell like I haven’t showered in days.”
I don’t meet his eyes, but I feel his gaze boring into the side of my skull. “You haven’t.”
I stand up and groan at how my joints protest. “How long was I out?”
A hand at my elbow, steadying me. “Four days. The doctor was in and out every day. It wasn’t that serious, so there was no need to take you to the hospital. But I do have questions about how you drove yourself to this state.”
Under the calm tone is a hint of steel that conveys his displeasure and I frown, not enjoying the blame in his tone.
I want to flip him the bird, but after knowing that he probably spent his days cooped up in here with me, it felt too ungrateful. So, I just chose not to say anything and walk out.
I am in the shower for twenty minutes, the feeling of hot water over my skin making me feel better. My head still feels hollow, and I feel weak, but I lather my hair and wash it.
I forgot to take out some clothes, so I put on the bathrobe and sneak into my bedroom.
I am just pulling out a blouse when Zayn walks in, talking on his phone.
He stills when he sees me in the tiny bathrobe that hardly covers my generous assets, the edge of my butt on display. My hands clutch the blouse to my chest and the way his gaze moves over me, almost devouring me, hot possessiveness in that look, it makes my nipples harden, almost painfully so.
When our eyes meet, he just gives me a heated look before turning on his heel, almost abruptly, continuing his conversation on the phone. “Sorry about that. I got distracted. What were you saying?”
